


always crashing in the same car

by sharkie



Series: The Broad Walls [9]
Category: Babylon (TV)
Genre: Gen, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-16
Updated: 2016-08-16
Packaged: 2018-08-08 06:54:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7747555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharkie/pseuds/sharkie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That Scene in the finale, and what happened afterwards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	always crashing in the same car

**Author's Note:**

> Written by request for thatonethingofsubstance. :D

Sirens wail. Their Range Rover swerves wide to narrowly avoid a collision, tyres screeching against asphalt, dangerously close to slipping out of control. Liz stifles a cry as she lurches to the side - a hand shoots out to anchor herself.

“Jesus!” Finn gasps.

She manages to stay upright. The car speeds in its fight to straighten, splashing through puddles of water. Sirens fade but they're still shrieking. The strongest thought that pops into her head is, if anything happens to them here, it'll look _terrible_ in the news. Sharon will capitalize on the ensuing goodwill, her sacrifice was for nothing, the Met is fucked - 

The car steadies and decelerates. Breathing a sigh of relief, Liz registers that her hand has found a place to land. Somewhere firm, and warm and -

Finn's hand. Finn's hand, rigid and unmoving on his lap. Fucking _goddamn_ shit. In a clearer state of mind, she'd sooner have grabbed a wolverine.

Astonishingly, he doesn't yank his hand away. Their eyes lock, and his are the widest she’s ever seen them. It takes a second to remember that she needs to remove her hand. And that they’re in the middle of a rioting city.

Oh, fuck.

 

 

“Shit, what the - ! Inglis exclaims, grabbing his radio. “This is the Commissioner, what’s going on?”

Finn’s heart has leapt has into his mouth for the thirtieth time this month. It doesn’t taste any better. Then Liz whips her head around at a speed to rival the car's earlier swerving, he meets her stare, and several points of interest become distinct at once. Her hand on his. Her fingers on his, tight. Her gaze on him, bewildered. London on the brink of collapse. Curiously, at the moment the latter seems like the least dire calamity.

She doesn’t pull her hand away, withdrawing it slowly instead. Is it his imagination, or does her index finger  _linger?_

Oh, _fuck_.

 

 

Finn nods once, unaccusatory. With mild effort, Liz tears her eyes away and keeps them peeled up front. Her hand rests on her lap. He leaves his hand where it is.

 

 

“We’re just taking you south, Commissioner,” the leader of their motorcycle envoy replies. “It’s got a lot worse, I’m afraid, it’s spread in central London.”

Something is wrong. Liz knew it when she spotted the mask-wearing bicyclists peering into their window, she knows it as the Range Rover follows the envoy down the road. It's that same stone-heavy weight dropped inside her chest when Richard's phone rang after the bombing or when Sharon mentioned campaign strategies after delivering news of a dead child. They should be more careful. They should turn back. They -

“Shit!” Inglis shouts again. “Stop the car!”

They've driven straight into a group of rioters. Said rioters are clustered around what appears to be an abandoned police car - a police car on _fire_. And it’s blocking their motorcade, which is currently fire-free, though that could change anytime soon.

It would be unhelpful to start screaming. 

Inglis leans forward. “Can we get through?” he asks.

“There’s no way through,” says the voice on the radio. The police motorcycles rev and retreat, dodging rioters swinging makeshift weapons and grabbing at them. “Turn around, turn around!”

Worst-case scenarios race through Liz’s mind. She wills her mouth or tongue to produce a sound other than choking noises and a variety of gasps - at least make a valuable contribution to this fucking final conversation before they all die - but nothing else will come out.

(“This place is on fire,” Liz had said. “It's burning to the ground.” Metaphor pales in comparison to reality. Lofty hyperbole couldn't do justice to the drama on the ground.)

 

 

Heat from the inferno outside warms the car’s interior. The mob approaches, a hostile swarm indistinguishable as individuals. Liz is hyperventilating now. Her hand scrabbles at her skirt, at the seat, nails scraping against fabric. Jesus, it's like she's never seen a riot before.

“Requesting back-up -” says the leader of the envoy.

Finn frantically turns to gape out of the rear window. “Fucking back up!” he yells.

(He could reach down and take her hand, she’s so close. Her hand on his didn’t feel so unusual until he realised it was there. Richard didn't need protecting, contrary to her delusional job description. Inglis doesn't need protecting. Even Finn thinks of himself as a glass house, see-through and breakable but solid and structured. Liz is - a marauding barbarian, the greatest threat he's encountered in years, and she's as scared as he had been the first time he rounded a corner and walked into a wall of flames.)

“Reverse!” Inglis shouts.

They haven’t moved. They haven’t _moved_.

“I - I can’t,” their driver says. “They need to reverse,” he explains, referring to the car behind them.

That car finally, _finally_ backs up, and they begin to reverse as well. But the mob gives chase, shouting louder and hurling objects. Bottles shatter - a brick bounces off the windscreen - 

“Go, go, go,” Finn chants, banging the car door with a fist, “get us out of here!”

They reverse faster, until they have enough space to ram into the rioters at full speed, if their driver was feeling particularly foolish or vindictive. Their pursuers slow to a near-halt...and the Range Rover turns to zip down the road they came from just a minute ago.

Inglis breathes a sigh of relief and says, “All right. Frank, find us another route.”

Finn sags into his seat. Liz is still hyperventilating.

 

 

...Okay. So the life she's chosen could possibly lead to an early death. Liz had already reconciled herself to the idea of failure or wasting away; she hadn't really considered being caught in the thick of physical violence, not even after the bomb. It's funny how the brain will moan that it wants to die for approximately 1/3 of a year, then say, _No, not like that_.  

The night's not over yet. The Prime Minister awaits, the road ahead awaits; tonight's work will probably bleed into tomorrow. She'll have to regain her composure for Inglis' sake. She'll have to brush her hair, and reapply lipstick, and pretend that nothing profoundly damaging happened during the journey, even though it's arguably relevant to the topic, more relevant than any formal report or news bulletin. That's the real nature of her job, in the end: pretending. Smiling and shaking hands in the aftermath of disaster. The truth can't flourish unless it's smothered first. 

Embarrassment tinges her residual panic. _Why_  couldn't Finn pull his fucking hand away or yell at her, so she could be angry at that instead of having a polite, quiet breakdown next to her former enemies? 

There will be a return trip, later. And another one to go home. A tear leaks out of the corner of her eye. 

 

 

Sarcasm is Finn’s sole happy place: “Actually, if cops could choose to be firemen, maybe we wouldn’t have this problem.”

The Commissioner huffs, cracking a smile. “We’d douse the city like pouring a bucket of water on fighting cats.”

“Exactly.”

Liz hasn’t uttered a single word since their close call; she doesn’t chime in with the predictable protest about ethical policing or how it’d be difficult to extinguish literal fires with philosophical hoses.

Inglis glances at her. His voice softens. “Are you okay?”

She nods listlessly.

“It'll grow on you,” Finn says. “The adrenaline is a better rush than caffeine. Or coke.”

Liz briefly turns to regard him with a sort of distant disbelief, hints of a frown tugging at her otherwise lost expression. His cheeks heat. 

Perhaps they can move on to more pressing concerns. Namely, hands and touch and the renewed pounding of his heart, and how the memory of the rioters is only part of the problem. Finn’s gaze falls to her quivering lips, flick up to her glazed eyes. Weak. Stupid. And maybe Liz is, too. He pops a piece of gum into his mouth and scowls at his window as if the city has committed a grave offence against him. 

* * *

Inglis’ advisors have been uncharacteristically uninterested in each other after disembarking. Marching into Lambeth Command, Finn shoves his hands into the pockets of his trousers; Liz’s clench into fists by her sides. Inglis observes their unusual behaviour with the critical-yet-detached bemusement of a tourist sprinkled by water at a marine mammal show.

This is the second-biggest night of his life. An ongoing riot and pissy PR people couldn't put a dent in that, merely...enhance it.

They pause to regroup. Liz and Finn stay on either side of Inglis. The Commissioner straightens his tie and side-eyes them each.

“I’ll go over the facts, offer some reassurance,” Inglis decides. “But I’ll avoid setting their expectations too high. It looks bad on the streets, but with the TSG back in full force, the riot will probably wear down by tomorrow morning. Noon at worst.”

“Let us do all the talking,” Finn snaps, right as Liz is opening her mouth.

“I’d advise taking turns,” Liz tells Inglis, shooting a cursory glare at Finn. “Unless you’re eager to start your tenure by stunning everyone with the barking of your attack dog here.”

“Right, because you’re the poster child for the spirit of cooperation,” Finn sneers. “Who’d you walk up the steps to the Home Office three and a half hours ago?”

“Sharon, like a fucking executioner leading a prisoner to a gallows,” she answers, voice low and venomous. “Wanna explain why you knew the exact time off the top of your head?”

“I’m good with numbers. For example, I know you’re far from first in the chain of command.”

“Yeah? I’m sure you're intimately familiar with every possible incarnation of number two.”

“Oh, that’s as mature as -”

“I know both of you interpret being fired as a casual suggestion at best,” Inglis interrupts calmly, “so if you don’t think you can refrain from bickering for the next, oh, three to six hours, I’m going to walk in there and deliver my resignation.”

He will do no such thing, ever, but today reality has been warped enough that they look seriously concerned.

“I’ll retire to raise sheep,” he continues. “It’s a peaceful life. Nice and quiet, if you get used to the bleating and the piles of shit, which I am.” He narrows his eyes. “And we’ll see how the fucking peanut gallery cracks in the next Commissioner’s iron grip.”

“Yes, sir,” Finn mutters, remembering to appear contrite.

“Sorry, sir,” Liz adds awkwardly, and gnaws on her lower lip.

“Good. Now, will you behave?” Inglis’ terse smile stretches as he points at a vacant bench. “Or do you need to sit in the timeout corner holding hands while I tackle the grown-up stuff?”

Their appalled expressions justify any price paid tonight. The subsequent half-minute of total, blissful silence is a bonus.

“Three to six hours,” Inglis reminds them cheerfully as they head inside, with a smirk directed at Finn. “Keep track.”

This is going to be _f_ _un_.


End file.
